


like vines

by demios



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: @intsys do not miss me with that gay shit. straight-up kill me with that gay shit, Fluff, M/M, Post-Game, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Forsyth and Python spend time catching up.





	like vines

**Author's Note:**

> finally finished sov and i’m dead inside! also i thought that last tidbit in python’s ending was neat so i wanted to write a little about it

Knighthood isn’t for everyone. Python couldn't seem to find the appeal in bending over backwards for nobles despite how much Forsyth’s eyes gleamed at the prospect. The end of serving in a long war hasn’t changed his opinion on the matter in the slightest, regardless of what decent nobles he’s come to meet. It’s not that he has a problem with serving the Saint-King on principle - of course he doesn’t, why else would he have stayed for the entirety of his regicide-turned-deicide? - but he declines Alm’s offer to be knighted for two reasons.

One, the boy’s coronation didn’t magically solve every problem in Valentia; bandits and pirates were still crawling about and taking advantage of the chaos caused by the fall of the empire, and one fancy band of knights stuck at the castle would definitely not be enough to deal with all it. And second, he’d rather take it at his own pace than break his back for the sake of some royal tradition or the like.

So when he decided to form his own group to brave the reaches of the continent where the One Kingdom’s influence wasn’t entirely present (or _welcome_ ), Alm was supportive of his decision and sent him off with a blessing. And, of course, the small group of Deliverance members who wanted to accomplish the same.

There wasn’t anything overly formal about the whole operation; usually they’d find some abandoned fortress to settle in while ridding the surrounding villages of their bandit problem. Python appreciates this lifestyle much more than a strict regimen in the One Kingdom’s Brotherhood of Knights; it allows him to kick back and relax every once in a while.

Python’s on watch duty tonight, only there’s not much to watch in a barren outpost in the middle of the forest. It used to be a bandit hideout, said bandits are long gone thanks to a bit of hard work. He’s taken the opportunity to prop his legs up on a table and resume the nap he’d been woken up from; two sleepy recruits shook him awake in the barracks, then relieved themselves of the duty before he could complain. Luckily, the balmy summer night makes it easy to drift back into a relaxed state, one Python doesn't intend to let slip away.

But being a soldier for too long has, unfortunately, sharpened his senses to the point where he can hear a disturbance even on the brink of unconsciousness. Nap or not, the presence of noise makes him stir. An annoyed sigh escapes him.

Python turns his head and squints at the figure between the trees, whose arms are waving so enthusiastically he thinks they’ve dumped another wide-eyed recruit on him. It wouldn't be the first time he's received a fresh face in the dead of night, what with how far away the outpost is stationed. The idea of having to deal with another one makes him want to ignore it altogether, because he’s not in the mood to acquire another headache.

Still, he supposes he should investigate; he’s lazy, not careless. The archer reluctantly swings his legs onto the ground and takes a moment to stretch his limbs. Python then snatches up the bow and quiver lying on the ground and presses his back to the nearest tree, trying to gauge how much of a threat the intruder is. The possibility of the person hailing from the nearby village is just as real as the possibility of a vengeful bandit. He won’t take any chances.

Python takes a slow step closer, hiding among the foliage with the grass to muffle his weight. His bow is gripped tightly in one hand as he peers through the trees, the other poised to pluck an arrow from his quiver at a moment’s notice. The darkness makes it difficult for even his trained eye to fully discern who the person is; all he can do is wait until they come closer...

When he’s greeted by a mass of green armor in the moonlight, the archer suddenly loses all caution. He hops over the brush he was hiding behind, briefly startling the familiar face. “Hey, if it isn’t Forsyth! And here I thought you’d forgotten about lil’ old me.”

“Python?! How could I forget about you when I spent the last two hours trying to find your newest outpost?” Upon closer inspection, Forsyth is covered in leaves, plus a few that have found their way into the joints of his armor. The sight makes Python laugh and he reaches up to pick a leaf out of the other’s hair when he notices it isn’t the same shade of green.

“So, how's tricks?” Python isn't surprised anymore when the phrase leaves his mouth; he picked it up from Alm’s friends and it made an inevitable home in his vocabulary. “Besides the lovely walk in the woods, I mean?”

“I do admit things have gotten a tad busier since I last saw you,” Forsyth sheathes the lance he’s been carrying in the ground and brushes off one shoulder, then the other. “Just because the empire’s fallen, bandits and cutthroats of all kinds think they can simply do as they please, especially around Rigel Castle.”

“That so?” Forsyth says it like it's news. Python figures some optimistic part of him expected a little less fussing from the people when their Deliverance arrived, but not everyone's gonna be happy with both their kings and gods dead. “The new kingdom is still young. Give it some time.”

“We could use you back at the Brotherhood. Why you’ve chosen such a deserted post is beyond me. It’s a waste of your skills!” Forsyth huffs, starting his usual spiel.

“Uh-huh,” Python offers noncommittally. He’s heard the lamenting too many times for it to be potent and is _far_ more interested in the present the other’s brought, his gaze fixed on the mysterious container hanging  by  Forsyth’s side. His eyes shift back to its owner and he raises one brow. “Did you come down here just to give me a lecture?

“You should be flattered if I did; it takes nearly a week to make the trip out here.” Forsyth holds up a wine bottle and swirls its contents proudly. “Be thankful I’ve brought more than just an earful.”

“Ooh, _yes._ ” Python’s normally placid expression shows the barest hint of life, the man drawing closer with the intent to swipe the bottle from Forsyth’s grasp.

But Forsyth’s hand draws away the second he gets too close, knowing all too well that Python would look for any opportunity to shirk what meager responsibilities he has. His forehead creases when he realizes why the other had personally greeted him. “Oh, but – you’re on watch duty, aren’t you? Maybe this isn’t the best time to –”

“Like  _hell_ am I gonna pass up the chance for a drink.” If there was one thing Python missed about the Deliverance, it was the ability to sneak off and have fun. Being head of his makeshift militia meant he had to actually keep things in order. “Oh, and the chance to spend the evening with you.” He adds as an afterthought. Forsyth only rolls his eyes.

“That’s quite irresponsible of you.” Forsyth sighs.

“It’s fine. Besides, Forsyth the Mighty is here, isn’t he?” Decked out in the same armor he had made in their hometown’s smithy and everything, Python notices with amusement. “We can take whoever’s unlucky enough to come around here. It’ll be like old times.” He slings the bow across his back and gives it a pat.

The archer beckons him with one hand. “C’mere. You can help me keep watch.”

“The last time you said that, you fell asleep on me.” Forsyth points out, pulling his lance out of the dirt. “I’d rather my legs not give out like a newborn fawn’s in the morning.”

“There are actually chairs this time, I promise.” Python starts walking before Forsyth can protest and guides him back to the entrance of the outpost, where two chairs and a table are placed. The archer sweeps away a combination of crumbs and playing cards, then slides over the two glasses that had been left by whoever was on the previous shift. He then hangs his quiver by the back of the chair and props his bow next to it.

Forsyth sets his lance down across from him and leans it against the stone of the fortress wall. It makes Python wonder if he had to use it on the way here; Valentia still hasn't settled down and probably wouldn’t for a while.

“Have a seat, maybe take off that armor of yours off and get comfortable,” Python says as he eagerly plops down in the chair he had been using before.

“I am most comfortable when impervious to most forms of physical attack,” Forsyth replies as he sits in the other chair while still in full armor. “But thank you for the offer.”

“Don’t get your hopes up about being attacked, ‘cause there’s not much to do out here. We’re technically guarding the borderlands, but word on the wind says that Archanea has its own share of problems, so there’s not likely to be any excitement.” Python pauses to yawn. “Which is just the way I like it.”

“Is it truly that dull?” Forsyth seems taken aback. Python shrugs.

“Just the usual bandits and brigands. Nothing unusual, I guess, besides the recruits they've been pushing onto me out here.” He rubs the back of his neck in exasperation. He doesn’t mind having recruits around because it means less work for him, but some of them could be a handful. “Geez, I take care of a few minor rebellions and suddenly all the kids are calling me the best archer on the continent.”

“I admit your skills are second to none, but with  _your_ work ethic?” Forsyth scoffs. “Just wait until they see what the Brotherhood has to offer.”

“Well, they say I’m not as skilled as Archanea’s noble hotshot, but still pretty damned good. Not bad for someone who just shoots the fruit off trees these days, if I say so myself.” Python’s lips crack into the hint of a crooked smile. “What about your recruits? Are they as delightful as mine?”

“They’re a pleasure to teach, but I feel as though my shows of prowess have left them a bit... intimidated.” The other admits, the last word coming out a smidgen disheartened. Forsyth doesn't need to elaborate because Python already knows what he means. He can imagine it now, heroic displays and ravaged training grounds punctuated by the oh-so-memorable, _‘I’m a Forsyth to be reckoned with!’_ That would scare anyone away, let alone a group of pampered kids.

“Valbar and Lukas are also training the future knights, though Leon says Valbar’s too soft on them,” Forsyth continues. “Lukas is definitely the better teacher between the three of us.”

“Of course he is. He’s _Lukas_.” Polite and patient and pleasant to the point that it makes Python nauseous. It’s no wonder he would make a fine teacher.

“I’ve heard some of the others say I should be more like him or Sir Clive.” Forsyth pauses, brow furrowing. “They say my zeal can come across as caustic in times of peace.”

“More like Clive, huh? Well, you’ve already got the beautiful wife part down pat.” Python digs one elbow into the surface of the table and wiggles the fingers of his hand teasingly at Forsyth, making sure to draw attention to the simple silver band on his ring finger. Forsyth sports a similar one, only it’s hanging by a string on his neck under his armor so he won't accidentally lose it while swinging his lances around.

Call him a sap, but Python rather likes the rings. They're not obnoxiously flashy, but serve as a nice reminder regardless. There wasn't a ceremony or priest or anything of the sort; they simply took refuge in the nearest abandoned shrine and asked for Mila’s blessing before heading off to the smithy. That day, Forsyth dragged his lifeless husk out of the bedroll at an ungodly hour of the morning and insisted they get their rings fitted before anyone noticed they were gone. (Obviously they were going to notice Forsyth was gone, because he's Forsyth.)

When the blacksmith asked them what the occasion was, he shamelessly declared they were getting wed. In that moment, Python realized that he truly was in it for the long haul with Forsyth, and honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

(Python also enjoys the look of bewilderment when each recruit notices the ring and asks him who he's waiting for, to which he replies, ‘a dashing green-haired stud to carry me off into the sunset.’ Even if Forsyth was more likely to make him march his feet off instead of carrying him.)

He waves his hand dismissively. “But seriously, you're fine. The Brotherhood needs guys like you so guys like me can exist.”

“That’s of no help and you know it.”

“My services are free of charge.” Python leans over the table, plucking the wine out of Forsyth’s grasp while his lips peck the corner of the other’s forming frown. When he pulls back, he sloshes the contents of the present in curiousity.

“Now, what’s in the bottle? That wine Alm had from his village tasted pretty good.” Ram’s wine had a reputation across the southern half of the continent, and for good reason. But this time it’s an ornately decorated bottle, the faded label on the side something not entirely readable in the darkness.

“It’s a gift from His Majesty. I thought I’d share it with you the next time I was on leave.”

Python eyes the bottle skeptically but sets it down regardless. A drink’s a drink, no matter how dubious. He unsheathes the knife strapped to his thigh and starts wedging the ancient cork out of the bottle. Python nudges one of the glasses towards Forsyth and pours him some of the contents, which are a deep, rich red.

It’s a pleasant surprise when the contents don't taste as musty as he anticipated, the archer indulging in a deeper sip. “That’s good wine. Doesn’t taste like stuff from back home, that’s for sure.”

“Working under the royal family does have its benefits, and that includes access to the wine cellar, I suppose.” Forsyth takes a sip of his own, making a satisfied sigh afterwards. “His Majesty doesn’t partake in drink often, so he assured me he doesn't mind handing out what’s been fermenting in the basement of Zofia Castle.”

“Ah, right. He’s still a kid.” Alm never liked the taste of ale when they celebrated their victories; Python remembers looking over to find the kid’s nose wrinkling at the bitterness of his first courtesy sip. The archer raises his glass. “Well, cheers to Alm and all that. Being king hasn’t changed him too much, has it?”

Forsyth clinks his glass against Python’s. “He handed me the bottle and said he hoped it would help me, ‘ _wine down_.’ So no, I suppose not.” A smile touches Forsyth’s lips at the memory.

“Ugh. Let me guess, he told you to have a ‘ _grape time,_ ’ while you’re at it?” Python asks, deadpan.

“Ha! He wouldn’t be Alm if he didn’t.” Python’s heard too many puns during his time in the Deliverance for it to be amusing, but Forsyth's bark of laughter is contagious. He settles for a snort and another sip. That definitely sounds like Alm.

They spend their time soaking in the summer night, an art perfected by the number of times they’ve kept watch for the Deliverance. Conversation comes easily, the sounds of the woods weaving between their words. The drink makes Forsyth calmer, but Python is sure the exhaustion also helps lessen his usual vigor. Python listens to the lull of Forsyth’s voice as he talks about his riveting life in the knighthood, their friends, and occasionally chips in with an anecdote of his own. They haven’t seen each other in a couple months, but it feels like they haven’t parted at all, strangely enough. The wine warms his insides despite the cool air, though he supposes the company does, too.

A bout of laughter dies down and Forsyth speaks, low and pensive in the darkness. “It’s quiet out here; it reminds me of our town, in a way. Back at the castle there are always things happening and people around, even at night.”

Python can only imagine what it's like serving the new royalty, who no doubt had their hands more than full with rebuilding the country.

“You getting homesick? We could always stop by, if you want.” Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind making the trip back to his hometown with Forsyth in tow. Part of him wants to see how shocked his family will be when he brings back the loudest boy in the village as his husband. Or maybe they won’t be shocked at all, because they like Forsyth and know they've been stuck to each other since they were young.  He wouldn't put it past his mother to simply comment on how handsome Forsyth’s become.

He wonders if he'd be able to capitalize on an idle life in the village but quickly scraps the idea. Forsyth wouldn't have any of that for a long while. They’d grow old on their own terms, wielding a lance and bow until they became brittle.

“No, that’s alright. My home is with the One Kingdom’s knights, serving all of Valentia.” He brings one hand up, curling it into a fist and placing it over his heart. It’s his self-styled show of patriotism, a personal charm to steel his resolve since the first time they left home to become soldiers. Python always thought Forsyth’s dream was too outlandish, but he feels a swell of pride when he remembers he finally achieved it in spite of the odds.

“Aw, and here I thought you were gonna say something touching like, ‘my home is with my wonderful, darling husband.’” Python doesn’t quite pout, but a tone of mock hurt seeps into his tone.

“Yes, I suppose you’re my home, too, Python.” Forsyth grins at him cheekily.

“Welcome home, then, honey.” The archer leans on the table expectantly.

“Glad to be back.” Forsyth meets him halfway and presses his lips to Python’s.

Python intends to savor it - the warmth of Forsyth’s touch, the ghost of his breath, the comfort of his presence - until the two drowsy soldiers in charge of the next shift stumble out, wondering why Python hadn't roused them from their sleep. Forsyth pulls away in surprise, Python sorely missing the contact when he does.

He would have no problem with eating Forsyth’s face in front of his soldiers (he's their leader after all, and Clive was  _ten_ times more embarrassing around Mathilda), but the knight is too hung up on proper decorum, greeting Python’s men with a hearty salute they struggle to return in their stupor.

Python has no choice but to remove himself from his post, clapping one of his men on the shoulder before leaving with his equipment in one arm and the wine in other. Somehow Forsyth is already ahead of him, and tells him to pick up the pace as he makes his way to the barracks.

There's no need to rush; they've quite some time ahead of them, he thinks, the scene all-too familiar from their days in the army. He spares one last glance at the ring before following suit, telling Forsyth with a laugh he’s headed towards the armory instead of the barracks.


End file.
